


smells like teen spirit

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (REALLY GUYS), (sort of), 90's Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dorks in Love, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Jon Snow knows nothing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, R plus L equals J, Secret Messages, Teen Angst, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, further warnings in the tags, jon is a grunge person and you'll pry it from my dead hands, nirvana fan jon is another thing you'll pry from my dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “You gave him aheart shaped box,” Pyp repeats after Jon informs him ofwhat he did for his crush’s birthday.“It was the only thing I could think of!”“I just hope he’s not into that group enough to know what’s the story behind it,” Grenn mutters. “Because that’s fucked up. But hey, if he thanked you at least I guess he thinks it’s cute. So, are you introducing yourself next?”In which Jon might be pining after Sam a tad too much and his courtship methods aren't exactly conventional.





	smells like teen spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TotemundTabu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/gifts).



> This was written for the asoiafrarepairsanta exchange on tumblr, for the prompt _Jon/Sam, Jon going to the library to spy on his crush_ , which OBVIOUSLY turned into '9k monster in which knowing that my recipient wouldn't kill me for it I finally go all in with my years-long headcanon that modern au Jon would be so into Nirvana it wouldn't be even funny while also being Extra Teenager Emo'. Guys just bear with me here and apologies in advance for the extra philological state of things when it comes to this dumb headcanon, hopefully it's enjoyable even without knowing zilch about grunge music. Also DAMIEN I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT MERRY RAREPAIR CHRISTMAS <3
> 
>  **EXTRA WARNING that I didn't put on the tag because it doesn't pertain to any of the characters and I didn't want people to think someone actually *died* in this fic** : a, uh, turning point in this fic happens in light of Kurt Cobain's suicide in real time (this is a 90s AU so) so like, if someone just finding out their favorite singer which means *a lot* to them killed themselves/died is NOT something you wanna read about either skip or skim over the section starting with 'April 7th'. Really guys, I warned you.
> 
> Other than that: the characters don't belong to me (hahaha I wish), the title is from Nirvana (WHO WAS SURPRISED) and I only own the plot, even if I should probably warn you that Nick Hornby did this better than me at a certain point in his career. And now I'll leave this monster here and saunter vaguely back downwards. /o\

“You know that at the beginning you were almost cute but _now_ you’ve gone way past pathetic, don’t you?”

Thing is, Jon thinks, the only sensed reply to Pyp’s absolutely uncalled for insight should be, _of course I do_. He _knows_ he’s way past pathetic.

It doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it.

“Maybe,” Jon says. “But hey, my grades got up.”

Grenn lets out a low, suffering groan. “Fine, but if you don’t even _talk_ to him –”

“ _See you tomorrow_ , guys,” Jon cuts him short. He _knows_ that if he doesn’t even talk to _him_ he’s not going anywhere, he doesn’t need either Pyp or Grenn to point out the obvious, and he’s entirely aware of how ridiculous he’s being, which is why he’d prefer if they let him suffer out of his own choosing.

Pyp rolls his eyes and tells Grenn that it’s obvious that Jon’s a lost cause and _yes_ , _Snow, see you tomorrow_ , and they head back towards the building where they both live. Jon breathes in the cold winter air before lowering his backpack and reaching for the card in its outer pouch. He takes it and walks inside the library, relishing the immediate warmth he’s hit with. He heads for the check-in counter, greets Mr. Harlaw, who takes his card.

“Any preference for your place today?”

“Uh, is the usual free?”

“It is,” Mr. Harlaw says, with the tone of someone who also thinks that he’s adorable but kind of pathetic all the same.

“Then I’ll have the usual,” Jon says. “And, uh, let’s say I might need that algebra textbook from last week, if it’s still -”

“Even if someone sent it back to storage, it’d still be my job to get it,” Mr. Harlaw says, sliding him a pass with the number of his usual seat. “Just sit down, I’ll bring it over to you in a short while.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, and walks inside the room.

Seat nineteen is Jon’s usual for a lot of reasons.

First thing, it’s under the window - actually, it’s a window seat, with a small table shaped like a half-moon that he can use on his own because for two people it’d be too cramped, and since it’s winter it’s nice to soak in what little sunlight the afternoon has left to offer, and the seat is actually cushioned, so it’s more comfortable than average.

Second thing, it’s secluded, so no one usually bothers him.

Third thing, it faces directly seat thirteen, which is the entire reason why Jon’s friends will forever think he’s a whole new level of pathetic. As in, seat thirteen is _the usual_ place of the new kid in the grade above Jon’s at school, and Jon might have been sort of horribly pining when it came to the aforementioned new kid since they both ended up paying a visit to the principal’s office.

Or better: Jon was there because he had broken up a fight between two other idiots during recess and Mr. Thorne - who hates his guts and entirely relishes giving him the worst grades in algebra that he can get away with - had decided that _he_ started it, except that New Kid, whose name was Sam Tarly, Jon learned in that occasion, had seen the entire thing and had insisted to confirm Jon’s version.

They haven’t really spoken since, but since it was about the first time in what, ten years, that anyone actually took his side in such an occasion (to be fair, Pyp and Grenn would but they don’t go to _Jon’s_ school, they go to one nearby, and they know each other because they’re all neighbors), he _did_ make an impression.

Anyway, it wasn’t just that he did insist even if he obviously didn’t relish having to deal with authority figures the likes of Mr. Thorne. It was that Jon thought he _really_ was cute, a feeling he was keenly aware half of Sam’s classmates didn’t share, but if they couldn’t see behind some extra pounds and didn’t notice that he’s damned _cute_ and that his hair and eyes are a really lovely shade of hazel and that at least he doesn’t dress like a slouch and that his smile is really breathtaking, well, _their_ problem, not Jon’s.

Anyway, he asked around and found out that Sam spent the afternoons studying at the library rather than going back home and Jon might have started doing the same, hence his current ridiculous situation in which he takes a seat in a perfect spot to stare at the guy he likes for a few hours without doing a thing about it because he doesn’t know the first thing about flirting, he doesn’t know the first thing about approaching people and on top of that -

Well, it’s not just that Sam’s father is moderately famous in the area for being filthy rich and having protested for months because he opposed public housing being built near his precious residential area so that the worth of _his_ mansion wouldn’t go lower and then had to relent, so the guy is _kind_ of out of Jon’s league, given his current situation

( _and previous, for that matter_ )

and if his father knew he certainly wouldn’t approve of the two of them even talking to each other.

It’s just that until now he’s made the few friends he’s had in his life by _them_ talking to him first or breaking fights in which they had been dragged in against their will, and he honestly has no clue of how to even approach him - certainly _hey, do you remember that time we both were at the principal’s office and you saved me from more than two days of detention, and by the way I think you’re cute as hell and can I buy you coffee?_ is not… an approach that would work, Jon fears.

He sighs and thanks Mr. Harlaw as he drops the algebra textbook on his table, then grabs his homework, looks for the right chapter in the textbook, brings out his earbuds and presses _play_ on the Walkman he has in his jacket’s pocket.

If he has to feel miserable, he might as well do it with a decent soundtrack, and so he spends the next hour glancing between his homework and Sam Tarly while he listens to the last Nirvana record (which he might have bought a few months after the release, but he really wanted the _original_ tape and he had to wait for Christmas presents to get it) and decides all over again that it’s _miles_ better than that commercial sound that half-ruined _Nevermind_ was.

By the time Sam packs up his books and leaves just before closing time, Jon’s done with his homework - at least his grades _are_ skyrocketing - and has listened to that entire tape some three times, and it’s raining outside.

God, if he doesn’t _hate_ London. Too bad that at least for now there’s no way the situation might change.

\--

“Jon, honestly, you should tell him,” Grenn tells him during lunch the following week.

“Yeah, _no_ ,” Jon shrugs, sipping from his Coke can. “Guys. It’s just a real bad idea all around.”

“Why, because he has other friends he spends his time with?” Pyp rolls his eyes so theatrically Jon has a distinct feeling they might fall out of their sockets. “I mean, come on, he’s always on his own and he spends the day at the _library_ , he can’t have a much better social life than _you_. Hell, you hang out with us, he _doesn’t_.”

“That’s - that’s what it’s about,” Jon weakly counters, knowing that Pyp is indeed making an excellent point.

“Oh, so _what is the deal_ ,” Grenn says. “Come on, enlighten us, because I don’t see anything that might be a valid reason why you shouldn’t at least, like, say hi or something. I mean, if he doesn’t hang out with anyone and he’s been here since September, _maybe_ he can’t really do better than you. Or whatever.”

Jon sighs. “Fine. Grenn, do I have to remind you my always precarious living situation right now?”

At that, the two of them say nothing. They _know_ Jon’s precarious living situation well enough, since they’ve been neighbors for years.

“Right,” Jon says when neither of them replies. “Case is, _his_ father is in Targaryen Corp.’s board of directors.”

“… Ah, shit,” Pyp says. “Okay, fine, that’s a point, but that doesn’t mean you can’t, like, talk to him.”

“It doesn’t but I should _tell_ him, and you both know that the only reason my grandfather’s not on a quest to fuck my life up even further is that like _this_ he can pretend I don’t exist, and the last thing I should do is giving him a quick reminder _and_ possibly putting _him_ in trouble, so - I’m not.”

“Jon, _whatever_ , but you can’t pine forever,” Grenn says. “And you can’t pine until you’re eighteen or your grandfather dies, whichever happens before.”

“Apparently I can. Now, can we finish lunch or not?”

“We can,” Pyp sighs, “but this is twelve-year old pining level, not _fifteen_ year-old pining level, and you can’t expect to spend the next three years wallowing in your own misery.”

Jon would like to reply _see me try_ , but he knows it’d be useless and that Pyp is _right_ and that while he’s not entirely full of shit, he can’t honestly assume he’ll manage to go live another three years like this.

Fuck his grandfather, honestly, and he’d think the same for his father if he wasn’t long dead and if it wouldn’t feel like too much cruelty, given his current living situation.

He glances at Sam, who’s eating his own lunch on the other side of the same diner they picked, and then goes back to glance at his salad before either Pyp or Grenn can point out how fucking pathetic he is.

He _knows_.

\--

He goes to the library later.

He finishes all his history homework as he glances at Sam, who’s currently finishing a novel whose title Jon can’t read from here.

He feels like the most pathetic kind of stalker, honestly.

He turns up the volume of his tape just so he can stop thinking about it and goes back to his paper about the construction of Hadrian’s Wall and wonders how long he can actually keep the charade up.

\--

“I might have talked to your grandfather.”

Jon, who was currently intent on imagining the sweet moment in which, when he’s done with school, he’ll burn all of his algebra notes, was _not_ expecting that piece of information to come from - he’s not even sure of what they are to each other, because how do you call your biological’s father very close friend around whom you’ve been around since you could remember and ended up taking you in after said asshole died and left you in an extremely precarious position? _Guardian_ doesn’t cut it though it’s technically true, _father_ doesn’t either, they’re not _related_ and they even have the same name for reasons Jon’s entirely sure of but never dared ask, so it’s just - weird and they never calle each other by name.

 _The quite literal saint who prevented me from ending up in foster care_ is also too long, but it’s maybe the most accurate version of it. Which is why he settled on _stepfather_ to anyone who asks.

“About - about what? I mean, you don’t really have to,” he replies, knowing that talking to _his grandfather_ is a Russian roulette-like affair and that he can’t stand either of them, thought _Jon_ more than his older namesake.

“About letting you go to Ireland for your birthday.” The fact that it comes out sounding not exactly _happy_ tells Jon everything about how that conversation might have gone.

“Let me guess, he said no.”

“I’m sorry,” comes as an answer. “I did try but apparently he enjoys knowing he’s making your life miserable and if he finds out I’ve broken the agreements -”

“Don’t,” Jon interrupts. “No way I’m risking that and he fucks _them_ over, too.”

“I’ll talk to Ned and see if we can find a way to - at least have Robb come over. It wouldn’t be ideal but maybe we can pull it off.”

“I know _they_ can’t afford the ticket and I know that neither can we,” Jon sighs. “It’s fine, really. I’ll just go all-out for the eighteenth one.” He tries to force himself to smile, but he knows it’s not a great attempt.

“We’ll still see if we can make it work. Also, I ran into Sam Tarly’s father while I was _waiting for my turn_.”

At _that_ , Jon knows his cheek must flush, because when he looks up at _the other_ Jon in this apartment, he’s watching him knowingly and while Jon never asked directly, _were you in love with my father_ , he’s always known the answer. And that’s why he never even tried to hide anything that was going on in his sad excuse of a sentimental life - if anything, he knew he wasn’t going to get thrown out of the house for liking another boy.

“And?” He asks, slowly.

“And, he didn’t mention his firstborn once nor asked anything about _you_ once if he even remembers you exist. I’m just saying, if you want to go for it I’m fairly sure that _Randyll Tarly_ won’t be what ruins it for you.”

Jon about chokes on the water he was drinking.

“I’m -”

“Jon, you’re a lot of things, but _subtle_ isn’t one of them, and honestly, it’s better like this.”

“Why, my father was?”

“Yes, and maybe it’d have been better if he was bad at it. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Jon appreciates it.

It doesn’t exactly change his mind - he still doesn’t think it’s a good idea, and anyway who even knows if Sam’s into men or _okay with the idea of being into men_ , because his father surely isn’t.

But he still appreciates it.

\--

“By the way, we might have asked around.”

Jon almost spits the beer he was drinking - yeah, yeah, he _knows_ he shouldn’t, but it’s _beer_ , it’s Saturday evening, they’re in an empty park near their terrible building, he’s home alone for the next two days which is why Pyp and Grenn are sleeping over tonight and who’s even going to know.

“You asked around, _what_?”

Grenn’s arms spread in a motion that’s entirely too theatrical for Jon’s tastes.

“Have you forgotten I know that Satin guy who goes to _your_ school?”

“Oh god, what was that, the church’s play last Christmas?”

“Hey, we got a lot of free food at the party after it. Anyway, I do, and he knows someone who’s in class with _your_ guy.”

“Grenn -”

“So I told him to ask around and for your consideration -” Pyp goes on.

“Come on, guys, this is idiotic, I don’t need -”

“ _For your consideration_ , your guy’s favorite color is green, his favorite subject is apparently history but he’s good at everything except PE and chemistry, he’s been known to bring his lunch from home and occasionally share it with others, and his birthday’s February twenty, as in, _next week_ , and - what’s that face?”

Jon shakes his head and takes another drink. “Nothing. It’s just, huh, February twenty?”

“Pyp, it’s Kurt Cobain’s birthday,” Grenn sighs, “we’ve been friends with him for _years_ and you still forget it?”

“Why the hell should I remember Kurt Cobain’s birthday? _He_ likes him, I don’t. Anyway, if they’re even sharing a birthday I’d say that it’s meant to be and Jon should _obviously_ put a move on him already.”

Jon doesn’t know if he should get worried that for a moment he thought _the exact same thing_ or if he should just roll his eyes and pretend he hasn’t heard anything.

“I’m not -”

“ _And_ I was forgetting the most important part,” Pyp interrupts him. “He’s absolutely single, but I guess someone who goes at the library every day would be, and according to Satin he fishes on both sides of the pond, so to speak.”

“And how would _Satin_ know that?”

“Jon, seriously? I’ve rehearsed with him for two months for that play. He’s got a radar for this kinda thing. I mean, he pegged everyone down with a look or two. If he says he doesn’t like just girls, then he most probably _doesn’t_.”

Jon, who has only met Satin a few times and doesn’t know him very well, isn’t too keen to buy that.

“Ah, and he said you liked both, too.”

 _What_.

“Sorry?”

“He asked me if I knew after I introduced the two of you. See? Told you he pegs people down.”

Jon wishes Grenn was the kind of person who lied about this kind of thing.

Except, he’s _not_.

“Guys, I appreciate it, but -”

“Jon, that was just so you’d know, then you can do whatever you want with that information. I’d do _something_ with it, though.”

Fair point, Jon decides, and promises them he’ll think about it, but he already knows he won’t.

He thinks about the last time he saw Dany - you’d think someone’s _aunt_ wouldn’t be their own age - and she told him that he was starting to become worryingly similar to his own damned father.

“How?” He had asked.

“I wish it could be because you always look sad,” she had said, “but no, it’s that he ended up sabotaging his own happiness for half of his life and you look like you’re headed on the same road.”

No one should say that kind of stuff at fourteen, but _she_ has spent all her life with their grandfather, Jon only the first third, and it was long enough.

Thing is, she’s probably right.

Other thing is, he _can’t_ move beyond that.

Not for now, anyway.

\--

On February 20th, he arrives at the library before Sam does.

In theory, he was going to just sit in his place as usual, but -

He feels like he should be doing _something_ to acknowledge that it’s his _birthday_ , except that he can’t see any way he doesn’t end up looking like a creep because _why_ would he know, and what could he do that doesn’t make him look like one especially when sure as hell it’d mean not going up there and introducing himself?

He’s _terrible_ at this, damn it.

Anyway, he tries to not think about it and starts going through his history homework while his _Bleach_ tape plays inside his walkman, and then he glances upwards when he hears noise coming from Sam’s usual place.

Right. It’s him. Too bad that he looks… sad? Actually, even worse - his shoulders are slumped, he’s holding his head in between his hands as he sits down and at one point he grabs a tissue from his jacket and uses it to wipe at his eyes.

Well, _shit_. Can’t have been a good birthday, so far.

For a moment he thinks, _maybe I should go there_ -

But no. He just - it’s not only that he wouldn’t know what to say, it’s that he’s also _utter shit_ at consoling people. Or better, from what Pyp and Grenn assure him, he manages it just because he’s terrible at it but he tries anyway and that automatically lifts someone’s mood up, but they _know_ him, Sam - really doesn’t.

He thinks, _can I do something quickly_ , and then he remembers that they actually sell stationary stuff next to the check-in desk.

He’s fairly sure that no one would consider his role models healthy, when it comes to _romance gestures_ , but that’s not the damned point. He needs to be quick.

He heads to the desk, buys some green cardboard, extra strong glue and a pair of scissors, then quietly goes back to his own place and spares a moment to feel thankful that while he can’t draw for shit he was always pretty good at arts and crafts and that shit.

(Not that his grandfather ever appreciated the few handmade cards Jon had given him when he was too young to know better.)

While Sam obviously forces himself to go through his homework, Jon quietly works on what in the end turns out being a fairly decent _heart-shaped box_ , or at least one that won’t fall apart on itself, both box and cover. Then he reaches for his backpack and goes through his notebooks, finally finding one with only blank sheets of a more decent quality than the usual stuff he uses for homework. He thinks about it for a moment.

Then he realizes that _no_ , he can’t come up with anything original that’s beyond _happy birthday_ , which would be lame, and he doesn’t exactly know poetry lines or anything of the king that he could quote, even worse book quotes - his genre is hardly romance.

Well, at this point he might just finish what he started.

He writes down, neatly, in the center of the page, the first stanza of [Heart-Shaped Box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6P0SitRwy8), just switching the _she_ at the beginning for a _he_ because there’s a limit to everything and cutting off the part about _wishing to eat one’s cancer_ because that’s really too much,

 

( _He eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak_

_I've been locked inside your Heart-Shaped box for weeks_

_I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap_ )

 

then he considers signing it, but instead he writes down, smaller, _happy birthday_ , and then - _a friend_ , even if it’s utterly fucking lame and it’s still creepy according to Jon’s own standards.

Then again, it’s too late to back down.

He folds the piece of paper carefully, then puts it inside the box, then waits patiently until Sam stands up and heads for the bathroom. He sneaks out of his seat, drops the box on the desk and quietly moves back at his own place. Someone takes notice of him but they shrug and go back to their books.

Sam comes back from the bathroom a few minutes later and Jon leans back in his seat, pulling his textbook up so that it covers his face but he can glance over it. When he sees the box, his first reaction is looking around as if he’s trying to find the culprit, but then he desists after a moment - he probably realized it was useless since no one would have _waited_ for him to find it.

He sits down, then takes it carefully in between his hands, turns it over as if trying to figure out where it came from, but of course he can’t, since Jon didn’t _buy_ it.

Then he finally shrugs and opens it, and Jon curses the fact that he’s on Sam’s side and not on the front, because he can definitely notice him biting down on his tongue in order to not make noise, and he’s obviously excited as he opens the piece of paper, but like _this_ he can’t see the exact expression on his face as he opens it. He doesn’t seem creeped out, though. Jon puts the book back down and forces himself not to stare lest he gives himself out, and when he looks back up the box is gone and the piece of paper is too, and Sam’s looking down at his homework but he doesn’t look _too_ miserable.

Good. At least that.

Jon doesn’t dare leaving before Sam - he only stands up when it’s five minutes to closing time, he’s on his own tonight, too, but the-Jon-he-was-actually-named-after has to be out of King’s Landing for work two nights per week and there’s nothing much they can do about it for now. Then again, he works at a publisher’s located some four hours away from London and while he can work from home most of the week, for a couple of days he has to be there. The commute is kind of undoable and if you need to be there two days in a row, it’s not worth it. So, he doesn’t have any hurry.

He packs his things and glances at Sam’s desk.

There’s a folded piece of paper on it, and it’s not the one he left inside the box.

Jon takes a look around, heads there and snatches it, opening it.

 _Thank you_ , it reads.

Just that, but -

Jon stuffs it inside the backpack and runs out of the room, ignores Mr. Harlaw’s knowing face as he receives his card in exchange for the library pass and runs home wondering why the fuck his heartbeat has sped up _this_ much.

When he gets home, he carefully takes out the note and puts it inside his copy of _Perfume_ , which is about to fall apart and definitely _not_ what Mr. Thorne would like to know he enjoys reading, but never mind that.

He goes to sleep with his heart still beating _way_ faster than usual and wondering _what the hell_ he does from this point on.

\--

“You gave him a _heart shaped box_ ,” Pyp repeats after Jon informs him of _what he did for his crush’s birthday_.

“It was the only thing I could think of!”

“I just hope he’s not into that group enough to know what’s the story behind it,” Grenn mutters. “Because that’s fucked up. But hey, if he thanked you at least I guess he thinks it’s cute. So, are you introducing yourself next?”

“Fuck you,” Jon replies amiably, but the next week he _does_ get to the library earlier than Sam and in a moment of utter recklessness he tears another page out of his notebook, writes down the first stanza of [Come As You Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vabnZ9-ex7o) _,_ which is the least commercial thing on _Nevermind_ , thank you -

 

( _Come as you are, as you were_

_As I want you to be_

_As a friend, as a friend_

_As a known enemy_

_Take your time, hurry up_

_Choice is yours, don't be late_ )

 

\- folds it, writes Sam’s name on the outside and leaves it on the desk, counting on Mr. Harlaw not giving it to anyone else.

He doesn’t.

Jon doesn’t even look at Sam while he finds the thing.

At closing time, there’s another folded piece of paper on the desk.

He opens it.

 _If this isn’t a joke, thank you,_ it reads.

For a moment, Jon feels angry that the answer started with _if this isn’t a joke_ , because it’s absolutely and entirely unfair that it should be the first assumption Sam makes about the situation.

\--

The next day, he comes ready. He _already_ has a small blank card he bought where he wrote down the first lines of [About a Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AhcttcXcRYY) -

 

( _I need an easy friend_

_I do, with an ear to lend_

_I do think you fit this shoe_

_I do, won’t you have a clue?_ )

 

and, instead of a signature, _no, I’m not joking_.

He wishes he had the guts to go for it, but -

He can’t, not yet, not now, and so he leaves it on Sam’s usual table and goes to sit at his place. He buries his head in his algebra textbook, cursing its existence all over, and by the time Sam’s seated at his usual place, it’s been long enough that he must have pocketed the card.

Shit, he’s _ridiculous_ , isn’t he? His friends are right and he’s being a complete tool and he should just go up there and tell the truth because what does he have to lose, especially given _what he’s written on that damned card_ , and instead -

Instead he does nothing and ends up leaving before Sam does because he’s not on his own tonight and he should probably be home before nine PM, and he hopes that Mr. Harlaw keeps whatever answer Sam leaves him, if he even does.

\--

Mr. Harlaw does keep the reply for him.

It says, _if it’s not a joke, sure thing_.

Anyone with _less of a hang up_ would have just jumped at the chance.

Instead, it turns into spending the next few weeks leaving Sam small notes twice or thrice per week and getting increasingly nice replies, and the few times he dared glancing ahead as Sam sat, he _did_ see him smiling at the prospect of opening a new one.

When he actually does tell Pyp and Grenn they both roll their eyes and tell him to go and put a move on the guy already, at least he’d be polite about it and they’d get to be friends, which is all extremely sensed and well-put, and he knows they’re right.

Still -

It’s _safe_.

Like this, he can be whoever or whatever Sam would want an eventual _secret admirer_ or shit like that to be, and he doesn’t have to go forward and introduce himself and add, _hey, by the way, I have some ridiculous family situation according to which I don’t exist for half of them and I_ can’t _see the other half more than twice per year and instead I have to lay low_ , and -

Shit, doesn’t he hate himself, sometimes.

—

It goes on for a month.

On April 7th, he’s smiling as he places today’s note inside _Perfume_ \- by now it’s becoming _way_ thicker than it should be, given everything he’s stuffed inside it.

He’s thinking - maybe tomorrow he might stop quoting lyrics and actually write a _serious_ message. And maybe if that goes over well he’ll have fessed before June. He goes to bed with that prospect and he goes to school the next morning looking _less gloomy than usual_ , or so his classmates joke, because of course it’s some kind of in-joke between all of them.

He writes the note during recess, making sure he doesn’t end up sounding extra creepy or anything like that and making sure he hasn’t mentioned anything that might give any clues about his identity. He goes to the library with the thing neatly pressed inside his textbook.

He takes his usual place and sees Sam’s things at his usual table, but then notices that he’s standing in the children’s corner.

Right.

On Friday there’s some kind of public reading time to children and he volunteers for it, and it lasts until about five PM or so, and Jon frankly finds it adorable, and fuck’s sake, again, how would anyone who spends Friday afternoon _reading books to children_ consider being in a relationship with _him_ when he can’t even hold a conversation with people below the age of ten who aren’t related to him?

Anyway, he leaves the note on the desk when he’s sure no one’s watching, then goes back to his homework. Everything goes fine.

Until, around five thirty, he glances at the television on the other side of the glass wall, next to the check in desk, which is usually turned off, but once in a while Mr. Harlaw will watch the news at a low volume.

And he can’t hear what it says, but he can _see_ extremely well, and -

The moment he sees Kurt Cobain’s face and a large, red _SUICIDE?_ flashing underneath, he suddenly feels like the ground has opened below his feet, and he dumps his homework and runs out of the room, and asks quietly, “Could you turn that up a bit?”

Mr. Harlaw, who is, Jon thinks, aware of his musical tastes if only because of his clothing choices, takes pity on him and does.

\--

Twenty minutes later, he goes back to his place, having decided that he can’t hear the news anymore, and if he sees the electrician’s interview for the tenth time he’s going to snap.

He sits down. He takes a deep breath in - it’s nothing, it’s _nothing_ , it’s just that his favorite singer is dead but he won’t be the first nor the last to get through this, and he still has the records, and he’ll be _fine_ , after all it’s not as if they knew each other or anything, and it’s a pity because he won’t ever get to see him in concert but it could be _worse_ , couldn’t -

It’s to his deepest horror that he realizes that no, he’s not taking it very well, because he’s just grabbed his scarf and started crying against its old but still soft wool, and he has to resist the urge to bite down on his fist in order to not make any noise except that it would be useless because _he can’t bloody stop crying_ and the fact that no one has come closer and told him to at least do it outside instead of disturbing them is saying everything about how bloody pathetic he’s coming off here, and _fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s dead and there won’t be more music that makes his stomach turn over on itself for how much he can relate to it, and if there ever was a chance he’d meet the man and tell him he got through the previous three years also thanks to him it’s gone, and -_

“Er, this is going to sound really dumb, but - can I help you?”

… _What_?

Jon immediately lowers the scarf from his face and finds himself face to face with Sam, who’s gingerly seating on the free side of the window seat, looking ready to bolt if Jon tells him to fuck off.

“Why - why dumb?” Jon manages to ask, sounding as heartbroken as he’s feeling, and shit this was _not_ the way he had imagined talking to Sam for the first time for real.

“Because I was about to ask if you were all right and it’s obvious you’re not,” Sam says, and then takes a better look at him. “And I mean, we’ve only ever spoken that time in the principal’s office, but you look _really_ bad off.”

“It’s - no, I’m not all right,” he admits. “It’s just…” He shrugs, nods towards the television.

“Oh,” Sam says, sounding entirely sympathetic and like he _means_ it. “Nirvana fan, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Jon confirms, grabbing at once the _linen handkerchief_ Sam hands him and feeling so fucking ridiculous he could just be swallowed into the ground gladly, if it only opened under his feet for real. He blows his nose.

He still feels like shit. “I mean,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting it, I guess.” He doesn’t know why _anyone_ has stopped them from talking yet, but he supposes that everyone is taking pity on him. “Sorry, I don’t know what -”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Sam says hurriedly. “It’s - normal, I guess. Especially if you _really_ were into their music.”

“Might’ve been,” Jon mutters. “For reasons.” He sniffs again, wondering if he should give the kerchief back or wash it at home so he can bring it back to Sam clean, but then -

“Wait a moment,” Sam says, and then, “oh God, this is all _wrong_ and I shouldn’t do this now, but - you _really are into Nirvana_ and you come to the library every day and - _oh_.”

Jon follows the direction Sam’s eyes are fixed at, and -

Oh, _fuck_.

That was his philosophy homework, which was a written essay, and obviously he also wrote Sam’s letters longhand, which means that _anyone would recognize the handwriting_ -

He’s sort of ready to apologize when Sam looks back at him, but -

Jon wipes at his eyes because his vision was blurry and maybe he saw wrong, but -

No, Sam’s cheeks are actually flushing a deep pink.

“It - it was you, wasn’t it? Leaving the notes,” Sam asks, his voice shaking a tiny bit, as if he can’t believe it.

Jon figures there’s no point in lying.

“Yeah,” he says, “that was me. If they were inappropriate -”

“No! I, uh, that’s not it, at all, I just - _really_?”

Any other day, Jon might have been slightly more tactful about it. Right now, he feels like breaking down in tears again and he’s so exhausted he can’t dance around any subject.

“Yeah, _really._ Why?”

It came out so horribly pathetic, he really wants to get swallowed into the ground.

“No, it’s just - I sort of might have hoped for it, but it didn’t seem likely, you know.”

Right, maybe _that_ was the one thing that might have gotten him out of his funk, _maybe_.

“You - _might have hoped for it_?”

Good thing they’re whispering or they’d have been thrown out by now.

Sam’s face turns even redder.

“Uhm, well, I’ve kind of liked you since that stint that ended up with both of us at the principal’s, but you know, I just thought - someone like you wouldn’t really be into… me?”

Jon almost pinches his own arm just to make sure he’s not dreaming this entire exchange.

“If it’s for the reasons I think,” he replies, “I’m _plenty_ into you, if it wasn’t clear. I mean. I - I _really_ like you, all right? And I’m just - I haven’t told you straight because I thought there was no way _you_ might be into _me_ ,” he confesses, his voice dropping so low he’s sure no one else could have heard.

Sam is looking at him as if he’s grown another two heads.

“ _What_?”

As much as Jon doesn’t want to move, he thinks they can’t have this conversation _here_.

“Let’s - can we go outside a moment?”

“Sure,” Sam nods, and they head toward a door that leads to an inner backyard - it’s not that great, not in April when it’s raining every other day, but it’ll do for now.

“Right,” he says, trying to actually sound halfway coherent and not to _blow this entire thing to hell and back_ , “maybe we can talk more freely now.”

“Sure, and, uh, why would you assume that I wouldn’t… _be into you_ , or that _anyone_ wouldn’t?”

Jon almost laughs. “I’m not - okay, uh, has anyone at school filled you up when it comes to me?”

“Not really. Why would they?”

“Because most of my grade has avoided talking to me for _years_ and there’s a reason why the only two friends I have don’t go to school with us and are my neighbors. Er, your father works for Aerys Targaryen, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “Not a man I like to cross, and I’m glad I’ve only met him thrice. Why?”

“Has anyone filled you in on, uh, Aerys’s successors?”

“I don’t get what’s to do with anything, but from what my father said, Viserys is set up to inherit the company, Daenerys might as well not exist to him and Rhaegar should have inherited but died some ten years ago and there was an entire story about him having disgraced the family?”

Jon takes a breath, then two, then goes for it. “With that, they meant he cheated on his wife with a then seventeen year old who died of childbirth complications and they dealt with it by, uhm, making sure no one knew that there was _another_ nephew in existence and they didn't even tell the mother’s family until Rhaegar died. Ah, that’d be me.”

Sam, who had looked fairly bored until that point, suddenly looks at him _worryingly_. Maybe it’s because he kind of sounds like he wants to start crying all over again.

“Just - don’t mind me, it’s been an emotional day. What I mean is, I spent five years never leaving that mansion, then my arse of a father died in a dumb car accident and Aerys didn’t really want me to live with them _but_ he also didn’t want my mother’s family to, you know, _be around_ , and too bad that they all live in Ireland and didn’t exactly have the money to sure for custody or anything. Never mind that he’s an asshole control freak and he doesn’t want anyone _related to him_ out of his sight if he can help it. So, I’ve been writing them for years and seen them whenever we can, but - not permanently. Then I spent another three getting homeschooled with both Dany and Viserys and it wasn’t the nicest time in my life, and now I’m in some ridiculous situation because at some point I went to live with my father’s best friend who agreed to take me in when Aerys decided he just didn’t want me around, period, but it’s some kind of shady agreement according to which I can’t take _anyone’s_ surname until I’m eighteen and when I do it can’t be Targaryen and I can’t go anywhere outside England without _his_ authorization. And sadly he’s not dying anytime soon.”

“That’s - that’s why the surname’s Snow?”

“Yeah. They _got me to pick that_ when I needed to get documents and enroll in school. Anyway, everyone in my grade knows and according to them I’m bad news because _my grandfather hates me_ , so they don’t talk to me, period. And no one wants to associate. Not really. So, I’m really shitty at talking to people, as you might have noticed since I spent a month without even managing to talk to you face to face when I knew you didn’t _hate_ my notes, as my classmates like to say I dress like I’m going to a funeral all of the time and other choice things.”

“Such in?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, not counting the two neighbors, _everyone_ I talk to has told me I’m too much of a killjoy to want to spend time with. Since always, to be honest. I guess I thought that if you knew it was me… you’d have ended up thinking the same and I just - I chickened out every other time.” Fuck, this is the _lamest_ declaration in history, he has a feeling. At least Sam hasn’t run yet.

“Do your friends who are also your neighbors say you’re a killjoy, too?” Sam asks then, and - wait, what?

“Uh, no,” Jon admits. “But they do think I was being an idiot not fessing up.”

“Okay, I guess I can see that,” Sam goes on, and fine, that was fair, but - “That said, I’m not so sure about the whole killjoy deal.”

“Well, I don’t try to be one.”

“No, I mean, we met when _you were breaking up fights_. That’s a nice thing, you know.”

He shrugs again. “Fine, point taken, but -”

“ _And_ , well, while you’re obviously not a natural born poet and your chosen lyrics are a bit too hardcore for my tastes, I tend to not make a big deal out of that.”

“Why, what are your tastes?”

“Suzanne Vega, but you’re beating around the bush.” Is he half-smiling? Shit, he is. And - thing is, he has such a _genuine_ smile, Jon feels like he’s dropping deeper into the crush gutter with every passing second. Shit, he’s _so_ fucked. And _why_ is he even smiling?

“Fine,” he admits, “I am. But -”

“I just wanted to say, your music isn’t my thing but I can recognize heartfelt stuff and it definitely qualifies. And I never, like, decided to be friends with people or to _not_ be friends with them based on what they listened to. So, well, to answer to your _About a Girl_ note, the answer was yes already, but - ah, come on, you can’t _not_ see it.”

“I can’t see _what_? I left you fairly lame notes for two months instead of just talking to you, and I knew your birthday because my friends asked people in your class that they know through other means and it was completely pathetic, I -”

“Jon, do you think people line up outside my door to hand me _heart-shaped boxes_?”

“… They should,” Jon sighs. “I mean, really. And they don’t line up for me, either.”

“I’m afraid not many people see what _you_ see, but never mind. That was - _lovely_? And fine, maybe it was a bit, uh, _unconventional_ , but the intent was sweet and honest, if _that_ is your thing then I can’t exactly complain. I mean, someone leaves me _that_ kind of note and I decide it’s not fine because it’s not Shakespearean sonnets? Seriously?”

“I’m afraid that that’s the height of romanticism I can come up with,” Jon blurts, sort of amazed at himself for how _easy_ this is. He usually doesn’t talk this freely with people. _Usually._

“You know,” Sam says, moving slightly closer, “I think you’re selling yourself short. I mean, it’s not like we _know_ each other, but when I was saying I was hoping it’d be _you_ , it was because, uh, well, I’m also very much surprised you don’t have the line outside your door, regardless of your relatives. And never mind _that_ \- because uh, sorry, you’re _hot_ , all right?”

Jon thinks _no one_ ever used that word to describe him, but he just nods and lets Sam go on.

“And other than that you spend your time breaking fights in between people who don’t even like you and you went as far as doing the entire notes thing which honestly, was - _flattering_ to say the least, and I guess you didn’t know but my birthday _really_ sucked up until I found your infamous box.”

“I sort of guessed it. That’s why I went for it.”

“Well, thank you, because at least I didn’t think about my very idiotic father for the next few hours. Anyway, you really don’t… sound like a killjoy. And - come on, you were crying until ten minutes ago. Assholes don’t cry when their favorite singers die. Ouch, sorry, now I completely ruined the mood, didn’t I?”

“No,” Jon says, and suddenly he feels way lighter than before, even if he’s still _fucking sad_ , but maybe -

 _Maybe_ -

“Not at all,” he repeats, moving closer, standing inches from Sam, staring into that pair of lovely, large hazel eyes, and he knows he probably still has tear tracks on his face, but does it even matter?

He breathes in and puts a hand on Sam’s neck and moves closer, slowly, figuring that if he read this wrong he’ll get pushed away, but he’s _not_ , and it’s probably very sad that he’s never kissed anyone before now but it’s not like anyone ever wanted to, and so he just hopes it doesn't turn out he’s terribly lame at this. Their lips meet and he shudders when Sam’s hands go at the side of his face, and he can feel that Sam’s lips are _really_ soft comparing to his own - fuck, his own are so cracked it’s a miracle they aren’t bleeding - and for a moment neither of them moves, and then he thinks, _fuck it to hell and back_ and he pushes a tiny bit, and then Sam’s lips part under his own and _then_ -

Then he realizes that they _really_ were idiots, because a moment later they’re doing it without any finesse whatsoever, with his back against the wall and his arms thrown around Sam’s shoulders and they’re using tongue and he thinks he’s going to pass out from the adrenaline and from going to his lowest moment in the last ten years or so to his highest in half an hour, and by the time they’ve parted and he’s breathing heavily, Sam’s looking at him with an equally surprised face as his own must be.

“Wow,” he says, “I - I wasn’t planning on that.”

“Me neither,” Jon replies, “but I could totally do it again.”

“What a surprise,” Sam says, “actually, me, too,” he says, and then they’re kissing again, maybe slightly less urgently but still nowhere near chastely, and they don’t part until he can’t really breathe anymore.

“Shit,” Sam says, “what if I told you I never kissed anyone else before?”

“What if I told you I haven’t either?”

“ _Really_?”

Jon shrugs. “Told you. No one wants to kiss a walking funeral.” Or so he learned the one time he went to a birthday party where everyone in the class was invited and Margaery Tyrell told him _that_ while they were all playing spin the bottle, and that about killed any social interaction beyond the basics with anyone he’s in class with.

“What if I do?”

Jon really thinks he might faint. But instead he grins, and he doesn’t know how long it had been since he actually did.

“Then you’re more than welcome to do it again,” he says.

\--

It’s probably not surprising that neither of them _says_ anything for the next thirty minutes or so, before they have to go back inside the library lest someone actually comes looking for them, and maybe both of them are better at kissing than talking, but as Jon sits back down in his place, he can’t stop smiling and even if he can still see the news on the TV from the corner of his eyes, he can’t - he can’t really feel _sad_ now, not anymore.

He doesn’t want to be _that_ kind of lame person, but what if he thinks, _you did have my back even dying_ as he glances at the news? No one can know, after all.

\--

Sam stays until closing time. He does, too.

Mr. Harlaw is looking at them knowingly, but it’s not disapproving. Actually, he tells Jon that it was time they got their shit together and that it won’t be him telling as Sam packs the last of his things, and Jon just thanks him and doesn’t try to deny it.

“So,” Sam says as they go out in the night, “I’m going left.”

“Me too,” Jon says, “at least for the next five minutes or so. I mean, I live some six blocks from here.”

“I’m farther, but then I should pass in front of your place anyway. Uh, should we -”

“Go together? Sure,” Jon says. “No hurry, my, uh, let’s say stepfather, he’s out of town for work, he’s coming back tomorrow.”

He can see on Sam’s face that he doesn’t look too excited at the prospect of going home. He thinks, _should I_ , and then figures that it’s time he stops giving _so many fucks_.

“Tell you what, I can cook a mean Shepherd’s pie and I have leftovers from yesterday. If you want to come up for dinner we can share, you can phone your mother from home.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah, really. Be warned, my room does look like a funeral.”

“I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad. But sure, I’d love to.”

Jon takes a look around, sees that no one’s around and decides that really, fuck it. He holds out a hand. Sam takes it.

Well, he surely hadn’t thought the worst day of his life would turn into the best this quickly, but -

But he certainly won’t be the one complaining about it.

\--

For a moment, while he gets the table ready and heats up the pie and Sam calls his parents from the landline, Jon hopes with increasing worry that he _won’t_ get turned off by the decor in his room, which _has_ happened with a few people who had to drop by to ask him for some school homework.

Then -

“Well,” Sam says, walking inside the kitchen, “let me guess, the black candles and the fake chandelier are because you _really_ dug the _Unplugged_ aesthetics, right?”

Jon snorts. “Guilty as charged. That said, it was, uh, the collective Christmas present from my mom’s side of the family. Apparently the stepfather warned them I _really_ did dig those aesthetics.”

“The stepfather as in -”

“Father’s former best friend, and the worst thing is that I was named after _him_ and - we kinda never call each other by name, you know.”

“I can imagine,” Sam mutters. “Well, I mean, it’s - _different_ , but it’s kind of cool. As long as you’re into it.”

“Last time someone I knew who wasn’t my neighbors walked in there they just about ran out.”

“You know, you do have some shitty classmates.”

“Don’t you?”

“… Guilty as charged,” Sam admits, and at that point the food is heated and _they hold hands while eating_ and maybe they make out for another short while before Sam has to run back home before his curfew is on and his father murders him, and as Jon goes to sleep that night and glances at the _Bleach_ poster hung over his bed, he doesn’t really feel despair as he had thought he might.

“Well, thank you,” he whispers. “Figures that it’d go like this.”

Maybe he does shed a couple tears before falling asleep, but it’s nothing as bad as before.

\--

The next morning, he wakes up to notice that there’s a note on his nightstand that he hadn’t noticed yesterday. He opens it.

 

_The library is open this afternoon. See you there, three PM?_

_S._

 

He smiles as he folds it back and puts it along the others. Of course. Then this evening he can tell the other three interested parties that he actually did fess up and everything’s great -

Except that a moment later his stepfather calls asking him if he’s doing all right, because of course he only heard the news just this morning, and he was probably worried he’d do something really fucking stupid.

Which is fair.

“I’m fine,” Jon says. “I mean, as far as I can be. That said, it made me fess up.”

“ _Sorry_?”

“I heard the news at the library and I kind of broke down crying in the middle of it and Sam _did_ notice and - apparently I was worrying for nothing.”

“Well, _good_. We’re discussing it more after I come home but if you want to invite him over, it won’t be me stopping you. At least one of us should have the happy ending, right?

Jon _knew_ , and he doesn’t ask why - that’d be ridiculous and the last thing he needs to discuss is his thrice-damned father who not only ended up ruining his mother’s life and partially his ex-wife’s, who’s now gone back to Spain with the two children she had from him and that he never met, he also never noticed that _his best friend was in love with him_.

Good thing he doesn’t really remember him that well.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll arrange it.”

He gets ready and he gets there at three PM sharp, an hour after opening time. Mr. Harlaw is grinning as he hands Jon the card for place nineteen, and Jon heads for his usual seat -

Just to find a note folded on the table.

He glances at Sam’s seat. It’s empty.

 _What the hell_ , he thinks, and grabs the note. Actually, it’s _two_ \- one is a folded piece of paper and another is a small card. He reads the card first.

_This is the first and last time I do it with your extra-depressing songs, by the way. Next time I’m introducing you to somewhat less heavy stuff._

Jon puts it back on the table and then unfolds the note.

He _has_ to bite down on his tongue to not make some kind of embarrassing noise, but the last thing he was expecting was a note eerily similar to the ones he left for a month, and in the middle of it, [written in a way nicer handwriting than his own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8Nyjzq5jCg) -

 

_Skin the sun, fall asleep_

_Wish away, the soul is cheap_

_Lesson learned, wish me luck_

_Soothe the burn, wake me up_

_I'm not like them, but I can pretend_

_The sun is gone, but I have a light_

_The day is done, but I'm having fun_

_Maybe I’m just happy_

 

And he’s about to do something _really_ embarrassing when -

“You know, it _really_ was hard to find anything suited yesterday,” Sam tells him, showing up at his side. He probably had been hiding _somewhere_ while he waited for him.

“ _Yesterday_?”

“Er, again, I only know the famous ones. I looked through the booklets of your records while you were heating the food and that was the closest I could come to what I kind of wanted to say.”

Jon feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest for how hard it’s beating.

“I just - yeah, I guess that band’s not love songs material,” he admits.

“Well,” Sam says, “I might have asked Mr. Harlaw if we could share table nineteen. And,” he goes on, bringing out one single earplug from his jacket’s pocket, “we could share _my_ tape and I could show you what I mean with, _that_ didn’t exactly cut it.”

“Sure,” Jon says, still so low he thinks _he_ barely hears himself. “I _can_ enjoy other stuff. But - I mean, however not suited you think it is, that was actually perfect.”

“Really? Because I think I heard that song maybe once. I didn’t even remember it.”

“Maybe we can refresh your memory after you’re done trying to convert me to whatever it is that you like?”

“I think you have a deal,” Sam says, and sharing the window seat means that they have to stick close to each other or they wouldn’t fit, and as Jon grabs the earplug and puts it in his ear while their fingers thread under the table and they spread a few books on top of it so that it looks like they’re doing some homework when instead they’re definitely _not_ , he feels his lips curl upwards all over again.

“You know,” Sam says, “you’ve smiled more in the last two days than in the last what, six months?”

“Maybe I have a reason. Or maybe, why wouldn’t I when I’m in my, hm, favorite place?” He whispers, hoping no one else murders them for talking when they should be silent.

“Guess what,” Sam says, “it was my favorite before, too, but now? _Definitely_ by far.”

His fingers squeeze around Jon’s and Jon decides that he really, _really_ agrees, and he can't remember the last time he felt this elated about  _anything_ , and from the way Sam looks at him he fells the same, and, and,  _and_ -

 

Not _maybe,_ they’re just happy, now, aren’t they?

 

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Handy recap of all the songs mentioned in this fic:
> 
> \- [heart-shaped box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6P0SitRwy8);  
> \- [come as you are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vabnZ9-ex7o);  
> \- [about a girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AhcttcXcRYY);  
> \- [dumb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8Nyjzq5jCg);
> 
> the last two are the Unplugged version from which you can see the black candles/chandelier aesthetics u__u


End file.
